Unfortunately, however, for the success of his scheme, the postmaster of the little village of St. Menehould, being struck by the likeness of the king to the engraving of his portrait on the French assignats, or paper currency of the country, gave the alarm, and managed, by arousing the populace, to intercept the fugitives at Varennes, the very spot where they had expected to find safety. The king was accordingly compelled again to turn his steps toward Paris. Peasants armed with scythes and pitchforks guarded the carriage, the rabble at every village venting their execrations against their unhappy monarch. On reaching Paris, the royal fugitives were received in solemn silence. An order had been issued by the municipality, that whoever hissed them should be beatenwhoever applauded them, hanged. "The king," says a quaint writer, describing the scene, "kept exclaiming to the various official persons—what was evident enough- Well, you see, here I am!' and—what was not quite so evident-'I do assure you I did not mean to cross the frontiers.''

The flight of the king was eagerly laid hold of by the democratic party as a ground for advocating the establishment of a republic.

Their attempt, however, was unsuccessful. Louis was, it is true, for a short time suspended from his functions, but was soon afterwards, by the aid of the constitutional party, restored to office. From this time, however, the efforts of the democratic faction were unceasingly directed towards the undermining of the royal power, and the bitterest insults were heaped upon the king and his family. "I dare not," said the queen to general Dumouriez, approach the windows which look into the gardens. Last night I went to the window, to take the air at one of them towards the yard. A cannoneer on guard immediately addressed me on the causeway, and added, "How pleased I should be to see your head on the point of my bayonet!' In this hateful garden I see on the one side a man mounted on a chair, and reading aloud all kinds of horrors about us; on the other side a military man, or a priest, dragged through the ponds, while he is covered with blows and insults; and, regardless of this, others are playing at battledore or shuttlecock, or taking a quiet walk. What a place of residence! What a people!"*

Soon after the return of the king, the

* See Rowan's French Revolution,

National Assembly concluded its labours, and was succeeded by another body, entitled "The Legislative Assembly." By an ill-judged resolution, the members of the first assembly were declared ineligible for re-election to the second, a regulation which had the effect of depriving France of the services of many practical men, and c subjecting it again to the crude experiments of a body of senators completely destitute of the experience necessary for wise legislation. As might have been feared, the Legislative Assembly was found more democratic than its predecessor. The generality of its members made no scruple of avowing their predilections for a republican over a monarchical form of government. At this time a most dangerous association existed in Paris. It was called the Club of the Jacobins, from the circumstance of its meetings being held in a convent originally belonging to the Jacobin order of monks. Its members were composed chiefly of the lowest classes of society, but so influential was it with the mob, that the democratic leaders of the Legislative Assembly used regularly to attend it. Behind the tribune from which its orators spoke were hung the portraits of two regicides, Clement and Ravaillac. Beneath each of these

was the inscription, "This man was fortunate; he killed a king." From the latter fact alone the character of the assembly may be easily conceived. The most ultra-democratic tone pervaded its debates, and bloodthirsty and violent measures found at all times, within its walls, a ready advocate. To flatter the mob, and to vilify their opponents, were the two leading features in the speeches of its orators, who, to gain their base ends, used, without compunction, all the arts of meanness, slander, and falsehood. Thousands of branches of this formidable association were formed throughout France, communicating to the provinces, with electric rapidity, the schemes of wickedness concocted in the metropolis. There was no subject more relished in the Jacobin club, than the question of the king's deposition. Every effort was made to enlist the sympathies of the lower orders in favour of this proposition, and the success of these endeavours was soon but

too apparent. On the 20th June, 1792, a squalid and disorderly mob, amounting to 30,000 in number, defiled before the convention, and presented a petition for the dethronement of their monarch. After overawing the convention by their menacing manner, they

forcibly entered the royal palace, and subjected the unhappy inmates of it to much brutal mockery. The mob having entered the private apartments of the king, the latter was compelled to mount a table in the room to avoid being crushed to death by the crowd. He behaved with great dignity and equanimity on the occasion. To the demand of the mob, that he should pass certain measures, he replied, "This is neither the time nor the place to do so." The red cap of liberty having been handed to him, he mildly put it on. "Do not fear, Louis," said one of the more humane among the mob. "Feel if I do," answered the king, placing the man's hand to his heart. About eight o'clock in the evening, the palace was at last cleared of its intruders, and the unhappy king and his family, bursting into tears, threw themselves into each other's arms. A young man was a spectator in the crowd of the indignities offered to Louis: "Why," said he to a companion, "do they not cut down five hundred of these wretches with grape-shot? The rest would soon take to flight." The speaker of these words lived on a future occasion to reduce his advice to practice: he was Napoleon Buonaparte, afterwards emperor of France!